


things you might have never known

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [29]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Season/Series 10, Virginity curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26167078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Dean's set up to be a virgin sacrifice. Sam's not letting that happen.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: zmediaoutlet [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/587392
Comments: 43
Kudos: 198





	things you might have never known

**Author's Note:**

> based on the prompt: _Dean gets cursed into being a virgin again._

"This doesn’t make any _sense_ ," Sam says, and he knows he’s repeating himself but it’s just—

"Yeah, I heard you the first five times," Dean says. Sam sighs, tipping down the screen on his laptop so the light’s not in his eyes, but it doesn’t help at all with looking at Dean like—this.

A spell, is their best guess. Some kind of ritual, done by some kind of practitioner—witch or hoodoo priest or a hopeful, weird, lucky wiccan—and if they’re right it’s to prepare sacrifices, to whatever small god has been lured to this small town. Making the harvests fruitful, making the seasons mild. Right now it’s a warm spring trembling on the cusp of summer, the forest full of gold light and the lake an idyll, and the town would be gorgeous if it didn’t have unexplained disappearances, once a season of people gone who'd been acting strange just before they left, and when they found bodies, later, they were hardly recognizable because the people were emptied out. Husks, like they'd been drunk dry of life. It wouldn't even be that bad, really, because they've both seen their share of weird deaths, if when Dean came back from the liquor store he hadn’t had his jacket zipped up to the throat, and his face flaming, and his voice stuttering and stumbly as he told Sam that _something—something’s wrong_.

"You don’t remember—" Sam tries, and Dean rolls his eyes, immediately, says, "I _told_ you, I don’t remember any of it."

He'd been panicky, when he came back. Panicked, like they hardly ever got anymore unless one or the other of them was dying, but it was because of a woman, some random woman, who smiled at him in a certain way that he couldn't even describe, and when Sam snorted and said _sounds like she was hitting on you_ , Dean had stared at him confused and said, _what do you mean?_

"Dean," Sam says, helpless. Dean’s ears and cheeks and throat, all bright red, and his arms folded defensive across his chest. "You’re thirty-six. You’ve slept with I don’t even want to know how many people. You’ve had sex. Jesus, you’ve had sex with _me._ "

Dean blushes harder. Tomato from his hairline to that tight closed collar. Sam’s just as lost as he was an hour ago, but Dean just looks... miserable. Sam’s getting there himself. "What about last night?" Sam tries. They don’t talk about this kind of stuff, much, but they’ve been together long enough that it’s not special. Except in how it is. He swivels his chair around, leans forward, tries to look—calm. "Talk to me. What happened?"

Dean rolls his eyes. Changed but not. Some kind of comfort. "We drove in to town," he says, annoyed in that way he gets when he’s freaked out about something. "You bitched about the radio selections, like always. We got some dinner, and you bitched about what I ordered, like always. We got a motel room, and I showered before bed, and then I went to sleep. Like always."

"Except that’s not—" Sam drags his hand over his face, and doesn’t miss how Dean’s eyes jump all over, from his eyes to his hand to his chest. "Dean. We slept together. Last night, after dinner, after you showered. Right here, on that bed."

He gets big eyes, and a head-shake, and an honest-to-god quiver of the lip. "We didn’t," Dean says, but soft and uncertain, and it’d be weird enough as it is but it’s way, way fucking weirder with Dean all—

"I don’t get it," Sam says. He stands up and doesn’t miss, either, how Dean flinches back, how he squirms with his knees together on the edge of the mattress. Dean’s got the Mark of Cain on his arm and he’s treating Sam like he’s the predator. What kind of cruel joke is Sam’s life. He pushes his hand through his hair, looking at the research they’ve managed to scrounge up in the past twenty-four hours. Missing people, their pictures stuck to the wall. "Offerings, right? To something. Mostly young but not always, mostly women but not always, and with you like—like this—I guess it’s—"

"Virgin sacrifice," Dean says, and when Sam turns around he’s not red anymore but patchy pink-and-white, his eyes huge, and Sam goes right to his side and grips his shoulders, and Dean flinches still but he looks at Sam like he’s the only thing in the world.

"It’s not going to happen," Sam says, and Dean looks back and forth between his eyes before his attention fixes to Sam’s mouth, and when it does he squeezes his eyelids tight, turns his face away like it hurts. Sam cups the side of his neck, instinct, and Dean shudders under his hands like it’s revolting but doesn’t move to get away.

"You’re—" Sam starts, but bites the inside of his cheek before he can say it. Afraid. Disgusted. _Virgin_ , his brain supplies, and immediately after supplies Dean grinning and lascivious as he ducked down Sam’s body, the night before, as he opened up Sam’s jeans and sucked down his dick like it was a treat he’d been looking forward to all day. Knowing Dean, it might well have been. Sam licks his lips and touches his thumb to the column of Dean’s throat, dragging slow even pressure down to the hollow, just above where he’s zipped up tight, and Dean actually—trembles, under his hands, like Sam hasn’t felt since—since he was soulless, that once, and he almost rips his hands away except that this isn’t that. He’s... almost one hundred percent sure, that it isn’t that.

"Tell me," Sam says. His voice feels sore and he clears his throat. "What it feels like, Dean, tell me."

Comes out harder when he tries again. Dean breathes shaky, eyelashes shuttered low. His cheek’s a line of hot pink, strange contrast against the stubble he’s let grow nearly into a beard. "I don’t—" he says, and swallows, quivery against Sam’s hand. "I don’t get it. What you’re—doing. I don’t know why you’re touching me like that."

"Do you want me to?" Sam says. Almost ten years, he hasn’t had to ask.

Dean’s mouth opens, and closes. His eyes slide toward Sam’s face and he laughs, sort of, a strange unhappy sound. "It’s so fucking weird, dude," he says, and sounds a little more like himself. He lifts a hand and barely, barely touches Sam’s forearm, fingertips so light Sam almost doesn’t feel them. "I—damn it, I’m freaking out, with you so close, and touching me, and your—body—" His eyes squeeze closed, which is lucky because Sam can’t imagine what’s on his face right now. "I just don’t know," Dean continues, low. "I can’t—I want to get away but I can’t. And I want—I want something, but I don’t know what it is. Like there’s something I’ve been waiting for and I’m gonna get it, but at the same time it feels like—like I’m gonna die, if I get it. And I want it anyway."

Virgins, Sam thinks, and a rolodex in the back of his head offers up a dozen gods, a dozen rituals, too many spells to count. Virgins, scared and ripe, ready to be eaten up in exchange for all sorts of wonderful things. Yesterday they went to the morgue and looked at the last victim, a woman who'd been twenty-six when last seen by her husband, and on the metal table she'd been torn open, her skin shrunk down to the bone, her eyes black holes in her face. Used up.

"Doesn't make sense," Sam says, again, and Dean turns his face away, huffs with annoyance. Trembling still, like he's the rabbit and Sam's the snake. Sam lets his hands go light but Dean doesn't try to get away. "A spell. Right? But virginity isn't—anything. Physically, I mean. What matters is—"

That moment, he thinks, but it's hard even to pin down. To quantify or explain. That place where the hazy understanding from furtive whispers and porn turns into something known. The facts immaterial in the face of that shock of—he doesn't even know how to think about it, really, but in front of him Dean really, really doesn't.

"How long was it?" Sam says. He sounds rough. "Between when the victims went missing and when they were found?"

"Three days," Dean says. The color in his cheek hasn't faded.

Dean was gone for two months, not two months ago. Sam drags his hands down Dean's arms and squeezes his wrists. He's not sure he'd make it through three days of Dean gone, at this point.

"Okay," he says, and leans forward, and kisses Dean's mouth.

A flinch. "What," Dean says, breathy, and Sam grabs his jaw and holds him in place to be kissed again, taking it even if it's not offered. Dean's hands come up to press uncertain against Sam's chest—pushing, sort of, but so light it's like it's not his brother, who could wrestle him to the floor if he wanted, who could break his arm if he wanted. His mouth's soft, yielding, and when Sam licks inside Dean makes this high strange sound in the back of his throat like he's being hurt and doesn't participate, doesn't grin and kiss Sam back, doesn't grip Sam close and lean in like this is the best part of his day.

"Fuck," Sam says, as he breaks away, and Dean blinks at him huge-eyed, his mouth still half-open like he doesn't know how it got there. "Do you—" Dean shakes his head. Sam palms the side of his face, this vague churn of nausea starting in his gut. "You want me to stop."

Dean opens his mouth wider and then hangs, breathing, like he can't get the words out. Spells, Sam thinks, and sacrifice. Willing and not-willing, beautiful and afraid. It's as clever as it is vile. He closes his eyes, ducks his head in closer so it's nearly a hug, and Dean does touch him then, a light hand on his side. Not knowing how to consent to things they don't understand, so they can't say no and they can't say yes, either.

Well. Sam knows his brother, and he knows what's waiting, if something else catches him. "I'm not going to stop," Sam says. Queer certainty, in the face of Dean's confusion. "Dean. You're not—I'm not letting you be one of those people."

Frowning—confusion, like he has no idea what Sam's talking about—and god, maybe he doesn't, but that doesn't make this any less necessary. "Take off your clothes," Sam says, and Dean gapes at him. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and pulls off his own shirt, his undershirt, yanking them over his head and tossing them aside, and when he looks again Dean's staring at his bare skin, at his tattoo, and Sam ignores that because this skin should be familiar ground, ten years and whole lives and deaths between them and Dean shouldn't look at him like anything but a known quantity. He hauls Dean closer with a pull on his wrist and Dean staggers in, and Sam gets the zip on the jacket halfway down before Dean has time to more than paw at him, futile. "Stop it," Sam says—asks—but of course Dean can't help it, weird compulsion taking over his body, and so Sam has to just—muscle through it, shoving Dean's hands away and stripping off the jacket, pulling it down his arms and taking his overshirt with it, and pulling the black tee over his head, and when he's naked from the waist up he wraps his arms around himself, like it's something Sam hasn't seen. Like that soft stretch of his stomach, like his chest that Sam's bitten up and slept against, like that isn't familiar ground. He looks at Sam startled, like he wasn't Sam's first time with a guy, both of them bruised and their knuckles sore and Sam desperate to prove—what, he doesn't even remember. Like he didn't hold Sam in the night, not two months ago, and kiss his jaw and say _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ , like Sam needed an apology in the face of having him, having his body, home and safe again.

But Dean doesn't remember those things. Sam kicks off his boots, peels off his socks and jeans and underwear until he's bare, and Dean stares at him with his face almost vacant. "I'm gonna take care of you," Sam says, and Dean says, a strange note in his voice, "But this isn't for you," and when Sam reaches out Dean backs up, nervous, until he hits the mattress with the back of his knees. Sam's hand curls helpless in the air, a second, before he reaches out and grips Dean's wrist, hard.

It's a fight and it's not. Dean pulls away but there's no strength to him, and even if Sam's been able to outclass him for years now it shouldn't be like this, with Sam fresh off an injury and Dean with the mark lighting up his blood. It's easy, easy, way easier than it should be, and Dean twists but it's all a playact, a show. Virgin from a movie, pink-cheeked and ignorant, not knowing what Sam's going to do to him—what whatever ravenous _thing_ was going to do, what it might have bitten into and eaten out of him.

Naked with the lamps still on, Dean's pale-golden, red from his ears to his throat to his chest, his thighs clamped tight, his dick soft. He puts his hands up when Sam grips him and shoves him further up the bed but of course he doesn't push Sam away—his hands gripping at Sam's shoulders but too lax to do anything about it. Sam hardly has to force it to get his knees apart, to slide up between them where he's home, but Dean's face is scrunched tight, turned away. "Can you—" Sam says, but on second thought he doesn't want Dean to look at him—not like this, not with that tight fearful tip to his mouth.

He kisses Dean there, instead, and if he doesn't have to force it he can be—soft. Kind of soft. Dean lets out a small hurt noise but Sam ignores it, kisses him again, and props himself up on one hand so he can tip Dean's chin up, and kisses him gentle and unmet by affection on the lips, pressing in soft to lick inside. Dean's fingers curl against his chest and he shudders but it'll have to do, because Sam's not going to fuck Dean without kissing him—they're better than that, now, and Sam's not going back no matter how vile this feels.

Despite everything—Dean's taste, the same. The smell of him, the same. Sam dips and breathes against Dean's jaw, brushes his lips against the too-long stubble, and despite everything his dick's lengthening, pressing up against the soft inside of Dean's thigh. He holds Dean's throat and kisses his collarbone and Dean's chest hitches, unexpected, and Sam presses his forehead there against Dean's tattoo and slides his hand down, cups Dean's soft dick small in his hand and squeezes, gentle, coaxing. This at least is genuinely new, to both of them. "You think you can get there?" he says, something flickering inside. Dean makes a wounded noise, his thighs squeezing around Sam's hips, gripping at Sam's shoulders enough to dig his nails in but no strength to push him away, and Sam kisses his pec, the skin soft and familiar—sucks his nipple in, the puffy soft of it just right under his tongue, and he'd bite usually because it makes Dean squirm and laugh and push at him hard, makes Dean say _it's not a friggin salad bar, freak_ , but with Dean like this—he's careful, lapping slow, sucking just enough that the soft skin pulls between his lips, Dean always as soft here as a girl—and—ah, there, Dean's back arches and his hand slips to the back of Sam's neck, his dick plumping, a little. A little. His nipple buds up in Sam's mouth and Sam groans for it, his own dick sliding up against the soft curve where Dean's ass meets his thigh, and Sam has to pull away, breathing hard, while Dean pants above his head, confused.

"That's not—" Dean says, and Sam picks up his head to find Dean frowning down at him, mouth red and tooth-dented, and Sam switches to the other nipple, suckling it to a reluctant firmness, rolling Dean's little dick in his grip while Dean squirms and faux-struggles and arches under him, learning something new.

Virgins, Sam's been thinking, this whole time. Not anything based in reality but a symbol full of power nevertheless, and what symbolism is required to break it. What they've done before but what Dean doesn't remember. What he's scared of, every time his hips hitch under Sam's and his knees drag up, trying to close.

When he's done Dean's chest is wet, his nipples even puffier than before, worked red. He dips lower, kisses Dean's shuddery stomach, kisses where the barely-there line of hair leads down to his dick—kisses his dick, wet, and feels Dean's thighs cringe up around his shoulders pressing them open, and when he sucks in one of Dean's balls Dean cries out, sliding his hands into Sam's hair, pulling as much as he can. "Does it feel good?" Sam says, stupid instinct, and stupider when he looks up and Dean's shaking his head, helpless. His face—

"Fuck, Dean," Sam says, and buries his face there in the crease of Dean's thigh and kisses whatever he can reach, touching him careful, because Dean's—

"Stop," Dean says, cracked, crying, and Sam shakes his head and touches Dean's asshole finally, what he's been inching toward this whole time, because he knows how virgin sacrifices work and what's going to be required of them, here, and Dean actually does twist away, then—sets his heels in the bed and pushes, trying to put distance between them. His dick's halfway to hard but that doesn't matter—his body flushed, waking up to what Sam's always known how to do to it, but that doesn't matter—because whatever awful thing wants it to hurt, wants it sore, and Sam pushes up, kneels revolted for a bare second, and then catches Dean around the thighs, drags him back into place.

"Dean—" he says, and he doesn't know if he's ever sounded so pleading, but Dean twists his face away, panting, and Sam catches his forearm and pushes it back against the bed, his hand covering up the mark, and Dean of course stays there because even if he's supposed to fight he's not allowed to win. Sam clenches his jaw, closes his eyes, but he knows what he's got to do. He's not going to let Dean get hurt by another hand ever again, if he can help it.

Dean cries out again when Sam presses lube-slick fingers against him—goes still, shocked, when the fingers press inside. Sam starts with two by habit but Dean's tight, a vicious band of heat around his knuckles, and he watches Dean's face, careful. He knows Dean's body but Dean's body isn't Dean's, right now. Panting at the ceiling, his hand that Sam hasn't trapped gripping at the polyester blanket. "Talk to me," Sam says, desperate, "tell me if it hurts, come on—"

"It doesn't—" Dean starts, and Sam pushes deeper, working the lube in as far as he can. Dean's jaw drops, his thigh tipping out. Normally Sam might grin triumph and Dean would roll his eyes and smack him and say, _more, bitch_ , and Sam would—but he pulls his hand away, now, drizzles more lube in and pushes in again and Dean hitches breath, muscle flexing unexpectedly as he pulls at the blanket.

"First time," Sam says, aching. He can't fix it but he can make it less—how it is. "You bet me fifty bucks and an oil change that I couldn't make you come like this, just my fingers. We had Pieces of Eight on the tapedeck, and we got to Queen of Spades before you started to—and fuck, it was hot, Dean, I know you can't remember but it was the hottest thing I ever saw."

"Sam," Dean says, wet stripes down his temples and his mouth trembling, and Sam says, "I'm gonna fuck you now," and Dean grimaces and covers his face with his hand, and Sam picks his hips up, his ass plush and sweet in Sam's lap, tipped up so Sam's got easy access to get just the right angle, and he lets Dean's forearm go—bloodless impression of his hand outlined around the mark, that's gonna bruise, fuck—and pulls Dean's hand away, holds it while he presses his dick against where he's made Dean wet and soft, where he's gonna bust him open.

"You like this, Dean, I promise you do," Sam says, kind of desperate, and Dean shakes his head, chest heaving on a sob, but he's looking Sam in the eyes, and that means Sam can see it when he pushes inside, Dean's body giving up space around him the way it always has, tight-and-then-soft, hot, right. Right.

Dean stops shaking, the fine quiver in his skin stilling. Sam pushes deeper, the slick between them just enough from long practice, and Dean's thighs tip wider, his face an open shock. When Sam bottoms out he stays still, and when he lets Dean's hand go Dean doesn't shove at him or try to get away. He keeps his eyes on Dean's face and lets him feel it—feels it himself, in a way he hasn't. That perfect grip and Dean's skin, and his eyes, wet and the lashes clumped and dark but locked in, on Sam's. Strange moment. Separate but not, anymore, and Sam arches his hips, curving forward and cramming himself just that tiny bit deeper, and Dean's lips part, his cheeks so red he looks burned.

"Feel," Sam says, and curls in so he can kiss Dean's face. Wet and salt, and the heat of that blush. He slips an arm under Dean's back and rocks his hips just a little, and feels the jolt, and when he lifts up again Dean looks almost like he doesn't know where he is. Or like—

"Hey." Sam grabs his hands, holds them tight. "Hey, are you with me?"

"Sammy," Dean says, and lifts his hips. It clenches, inside, and Sam lurches forward, crushing Dean's legs back so they're almost pressed to his shoulders. Dean winces but moans, too, and he takes a hand away to curl his arm over Sam's shoulders, holding him closer. "Sam," he says again, breathy, and Sam lifts up and kisses him and Dean—he doesn't respond like he should, but he doesn't just lay there like a mannequin, either, and Sam's so relieved he could cry.

When they pull apart Dean touches his jaw, eyes distant. "I can't—it's not the same," he says, shaking his head. He arches his back and groans, frustrated. "You're—I know something's coming but I don't know what."

Sam shifts, bracing his knees, and gives Dean a real, steady thrust, holding still again as he bottoms out, and Dean grunts, groans again, startled. Not the virgin fakeness—that maybe gone, from that first piercing moment of someone inside him—but not fixed, not _knowing_. He grips at Sam's hair, breathes out with his head tipped back on the blanket, and Sam fucks into him again, wondering. "Oh—god, god," Dean says, squirming, "why does that feel so good," and Sam pushes in and kisses him, intent, rocking his hips for real now, a rhythm they've worked out long before, cramming Sam's dick in just where it does its best work.

"We're not done," Sam says, holding Dean's face. Dean gulps air, rakes his nails against Sam's shoulder. "I'm going to come in you. Make sure."

"Jesus," Dean says, shaky, looking thunderstruck. He hooks a leg around the back of Sam's, arches, and his face goes distant as Sam jolts up inside him at a new angle. God, he feels good. Hard now, too, between them. "What's that like?"

Sam groans, lifting up. Dean's spread out, below him, an open feast. His eyes still uncertain but trusting Sam to know. "You'll see," Sam says. He cups Dean's balls in his hand, rolling them soft, and watches Dean's face go tight, wanting. "Don't worry. I've got you, Dean."

*

(Later—much later—Dean shifts, where he's curled into the comma of Sam's body. Sam hasn't let go, really. He says, quiet, _What if I'd fought?_

Sam opens his eyes, looking at the curve of Dean's shoulder against the light.

_I can be—I could've hurt you._

Sam rubs his thumb against the tendons in Dean's forearm. Slides up, to where he left his handprint, and closes his hand soft there again. _I would've done it anyway_. Dean's head turns, enough that Sam can see the shape of his cheekbone, his eyelashes dark against his cheek. _Nothing's taking you away. Not again_.

Gleam on Dean's skin, where the tear-tracks dried. _Good_ , is all Dean says, and Sam closes his eyes, and they sleep.)

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/627743480759910400/prompt-dean-gets-cursed-into-being-a-virgin)
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts if you have them.


End file.
